


I Just Want To Break This Crown (But It's Hard When I'm So Run Down)

by VolxdoSioda



Series: Whumptober 2019 [12]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Whumptober Day 12: "Don't move"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-21 11:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21074489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolxdoSioda/pseuds/VolxdoSioda
Summary: Noctis deals with yet another set of demands.





	I Just Want To Break This Crown (But It's Hard When I'm So Run Down)

“Don’t move.”

At a festival of over ten thousand, there are always bound to be blind spots. No matter how many eyes his dad puts out on the thickest parts of the crowds, or on him, or even on himself, it always seems like there’s  _ somewhere  _ he’s not looking, not paying any attention to. Somewhere he dismisses as  _ unimportant, not worth anyone’s attention. _

Inevitably, he is proven wrong. Inevitably, Noctis pays the price.

A knife against the back is subtle; it doesn’t draw attention the way a gun to the back of the skull might. Noctis has been through this song and dance enough times to imagine he knows what these people want. It always comes back to the government, and those who are unhappy with the way things are being run. Who think that as the Prince, Noctis can snap his fingers and suddenly people are throwing themselves over each other to try to do his bidding. 

They don’t realize that in order for Noctis to even buy his own clothes, paperwork needs to trade hands. He has to make an appointment with the Royal Tax Collector (an old name, but somewhat still appropriate), as well as no less than three of his father’s clerks just to submit the request. It’s why Ignis is usually given a stipend; that money is meant to cover whatever they need for a month. If Noctis goes over it, or if there’s an emergency and they require more, they have to touch base with the actual heart of the court. 

But people don’t know that. They just see Noctis and Regis and think  _ it must be easy being blue-blooded. _

And always, he tries to tell the people who make demands of him that. Tries to explain that I _ don’t have that kind of power,  _ and always they exclaim  _ you’re the prince, of course you do.  _ They never  _ think.  _

There’s a woman in charge this time. They’ve covered their faces, but the stature doesn’t lie. Neither does the tonal range. They’ve taken him to a room usually reserved for smaller meetings with nobles, and they’ve got guards at each door. Three, plus four doors for twelve, plus the woman, and someone next to her who is probably her muscle man. Fifteen people, all here to demand Noctis undo his father’s choices.

This time is no different.

“King Regis spoke of his decision to lend aid to Duscae, to offer rations and water and military aid. Tell him to transfer the aid to Leide instead.”

_ Here we go,  _ Noctis thinks. He’s tired. It’s been a long few weeks of endless meetings, endless talks of  _ the future of our nation,  _ whispered words between groups about how  _ Prince Noctis will rule.  _ He’s so, so tired.

So instead of trying to lead up to a gentle letdown, he drops the bomb. “I can’t.”

The woman tilts her head. As if she’s heard wrong. “Pardon?”

“I said I can’t. He won’t listen.” Rather, his father would listen, and then enquire very quietly about who asked him such things. And he’d tell him, and Regis would send some eyes into the city, and this tiny little group would be executed before dawn. Because Regis is not blind, and he isn’t a fool. He knows people go for Noctis because Noctis is seen as the soft spot. The opening to Regis’ power. 

Crack the son, and the father will bend. 

Except in the case of Regis and Noctis, it couldn’t be further from the truth. 

“And if we crack your skull and paint the walls with your blood, will he listen  _ then?!”  _ The man beside her demands, and starts forward. Except the woman grabs him by the front and yanks him back, nearly tumbling him on his ass. Through the holes in her mask, her eyes are sharp on Noctis.

“Tell me why,” she says, instead. “You are the Crown Prince. Everyone knows King Regis  _ adores  _ you.”

Noctis spreads his hands. “I am the heir, yes. And the son, yes. He loves me as any man loves his son. But he has a country to rule.” It’s why, after a point, it was explained to him that his father wouldn’t be in to read him bedtime stories, or laugh and hold him when he wanted to play, or help him learn new things. Regis  _ wanted  _ to - but the country came first. 

“You expect us to believe he won’t bend over backwards to make you happy?” She demands.

“He will  _ try  _ to make me happy, to a point.” This is the calmest discussion he’s ever had with captors. It’s throwing him a little. “But as I said, he has a country to rule. But even if that weren’t the case, even if I went to him right now and told him what you wanted me to, it likely wouldn’t go anywhere.”

_ That  _ makes her angry. “Why.”

He takes in a deep breath, and starts. “Because while my father has  _ spoken  _ of what he wants to do, the fact of the matter is, it will take at least six months for progress to be made, between the paperwork that must be submitted, the numbers that must be ironed out, and the food and supplies that must be put aside for such an undertaking without depriving anyone else. Then comes the travel itself. Several vehicles carrying the items in question, plus the troops, might make it there in as little as two weeks, assuming good weather and no interference from outsiders, like yourself.”

“ _ Outsiders?”  _ Someone hisses behind him. The woman lifts a hand, and they fall quiet. She gestures for Noctis to keep going. So he does.

“So for all that, six months is the  _ earliest  _ time. At the latest, it will take a full year. At this point in time, he has likely already submitted the initial plans for such an arrangement to both the Royal Tax Collector, and most of the clerks. If I were to go to him and say ‘You must take all that aid and put it towards Leide instead’, it would take us three weeks to get the paperwork he originally submitted back. And then we would need to notify everyone of the change. That would take a week in and of itself, assuming everyone is here and not on vacation or off for a day. We would make the changes, re-submit the work, and because we changed our minds once, it would take twice as long for the paperwork to come back. And all of that is only for the first check.”

“How many checks are there?”

“Twelve.”

“You’re fucking with us!” Someone yells, and Noctis prepares to be attacked. “You’re the goddamned Prince--”

“What exactly,” Noctis snaps, whirling, “Do you think  _ royalty  _ means? Do you think it means we snap our fingers, and miracles happen? Do you think it means our special  _ blood  _ gets us whatever we want? No, it just means we’re held to a higher standard than the rest of this fucking country, and it means we have to deal with idiots like  _ you  _ gunning for us every day of the fucking week. It means our every action is watched, recorded, and shared. We get no privacy, we get no security, and our lifespans are  _ shit,  _ all because you think somehow that you know better than us what  _ you deserve.  _ It’s quite literally being a parent to an entire country full of whining, pants-shitting children who want us to solve  _ everything  _ without ever touching reality to wonder how we’re going to do it.”

He turns back to the woman. Her eyes have gone wide. “So no, I’m not going to tell my father to put aid towards Leide instead of Duscae. You fuckers have had a  _ civil war  _ spanning two decades going on over there, and every time we try to help, you tell us to butt out, that you don’t  _ need  _ our help, because  _ us filthy Lucian dogs would never understand.  _ We house Galahdians, we house the cast-offs you and Duscae toss out like scraps, we house Tenebraens and Altissians with nowhere to go after the Empire took over, and hell, we even house men and women of the Empire who saw what was going down and fucking  _ ran  _ for it. And yet you have the unmitigated gall to come after me and  _ demand  _ that I go to my father and have him fix your problems?  _ Go fuck yourselves.”  _

He shoves past the guards, kicking the doors wide. On the other side, Cor is already waiting, a squad of his finest behind him. “They’re all yours,” Noctis croaks, pushing the wounded, aching part of himself that bleeds over the reminder of his future down, and telling himself  _ don’t cry, it only makes you look weak.  _

And just as he predicts, the to-be usurpers are executed before dawn. The festival goes on, and Noctis retreats to his room and cries.


End file.
